


The Three Roses

by partofforever (edvic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Herbology, M/M, Non-Canon Tom, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Secret Relationship, Teacher Harry, Teacher Tom, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7776661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/partofforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Riddle, grounded in the hospital wing, becomes a reciever of a mysterious package lost in the blizzard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nozomi

“What do you mean, professor?!”

“Calm down, Tom, I only wanted to say...”

“Everyone can go, so why not _me_?!”

“I thought...”

“It's the first time in _five years_ professor Dippet allowed us to visit Hogsmeade, so why can't I go?!”

“ _Enough!_ Professor, you should take your leave now.” Miss Pollingtonious, a nurse of impressive hight – powered up even more by her white cap - turned  vigorously to Horace Slughorn and emphatically showed him the door.

“But Hattie...” The young teacher tried to somehow appease his colleague, rising his hands in a defensive gesture. Unsuccessfully. In his efforts he resembled a small helpless spider, trying to resist the current of a river rousing him.

“I thought I expressed myself clearly enough?” The nurse asked in a menacing tone, her finger still pointing at the massive infirmary door. “No visits. We may be on the edge of an epidemy. And no getting out of bed, Mr. Riddle,” she added, seeing that her only patient tried to get up. “Cat pox is no joke. And I ask you kindly not to whine, you're not dying yet,” Miss Pollingtonious said with displeasure, before the door closed behind her and Horace Slughorn with a bang.

Tom Riddle looked up at the ceiling.  What did he do to deserve this?  Dippet was so sceptical about allowing his student to go out to Hogsmeade because of war and now, when the headmaster finally agreed – probably after Dumbledore persuaded him – to let them visit the magical  village , he had to be grounded. Tom never had a chance to see Zonko's Joke Shop or The Three Broomsticks Inn. Not that he considered them to be particularly interesting, but Hogsmeade  _was_ the only village in Britain  inhabited only by wizards, wasn't it? There was nothing weird about wanting to  _see_ it.

However, instead of walking along the snow-covered road, he was lying idly in the hospital wing overpowered by disease. Cat pox! Who could possibly come up with something so dumb?  He's never heard about anything like that! And if it was Black's cat that  infected him, he would deal with him soon enough. Could he  die of it ? Well,  _dying_ wasn't on top of his bucket list, not really, but it was kind of worrisome to wonder if wizards could die of something so trivial?

The perfectly white ceiling didn't know the answer. Or maybe it knew it, but wasn't - as ceilings all over the world – especially fond of sharing its knowledge? Did students at Hogwarts die because of epidemies in the past? It seemed to Tom nothing about such matters was mentioned in  _Hogwarts The History_ . He knew that strange and incurable diseases appeared among wizards from to time, but nothing like that happened in the last century or so.

Tom sighed. He was so terribly  _bored_ and his  _dear_ classmates didn't think about bringing him something to read. He would do anything for his Transfiguration textbook, although he knew it almost by heart already. He was so desperate he could even try to read one of  those idiotic mystery novels Abraxas Malfoy loved so much.

Outside the window the snow was falling harder with every passing minute. White snowflakes seemed to be heavy and sticky, as if they wanted to coat the whole school and cover it in a  hermetic shell to separate it from the outside world. Sometimes Tom felt just the same lying in the darkness of the Slytherin dormitory, when everyone else was asleep, and he couldn't find peace. He would get up in the middle of the night and look into the muddy water of the sleeping lake with the impression that - although the windows were protected with magic - it's trying to break the thick glass and leave him breathless. Other Slytherins loved their underwater bedroom, but he couldn't get rid of the  unsettling feeling of imprisonment in a  silvery cage , where the only way out was right into the  uninviting depths of  grim water. Perhaps it bothered him so much because of all the sins he had committed? Perhaps he would never again have the chance to  experience restful sleep, more suitable for the innocent, not the insidious. Foolishly looking for falsehood and deceit in people around, he was full of them himself...

Tom heard a sudden crash.  For a second he thought - quite illogically - that the water finally began to smash windows that were surrounding him and in a moment he will feel the sticky weight in his lungs, but he remembered in time that he was still in his bed in the hospital wing, not the Slytherin dormitory. He wasn't entirly wrong, however, as the source of the unexpected sound wa coming from somewhere near the window - when the crash was heard again, he realized that it was an owl fiercly bowing on the glass, trying to catch his attention.

Ignoring Miss Pollingtonious' prohibition Tom jumped out of his bed and in few quick steps he was at the windowsill. A cold breeze brought a some snow into the infimary and Tom recognized the barn owl - it belonged to Orion Black, whose younger cousin owned the  dark cat that was spreading the plague.

Tom was surprised.  Hasn't he seen Orion just a few hours ago? The Slytherins came to say goodbye before they left for Hogsmeade, promising not to have too much fun without him and Orion decided to send him a package right after they've parter?

The owl flew away through the open window only a moment after he untied the package - a small, crudely parchment-wrapped box. The few words written by Black in hurry explained a little: _For_ _Alphard's use._

If the package was ment for Alphard Black, why did  _he_ receive it? Was the owl wrong for some reason? He's never heard such a thing...

Tom looked at the box again suspiciously. If he opened it, would it look weird? He could always say he didn't notice Orion's note and thought it was for him, couldn't he? Well, he had his wand at the nightstand, he could simply pack the gift again and then return it to one of the Blacks, blaming their owl...

He shouldn't be considering opening other people's deliveries of course, but he was so bored...  Besides, what bad could happen? N othing more dangerous than the cat pox probably?

No longer  debating the  eventual consequences, Tom lifted the lid of the old box. In the middle, on a suede piece bearing clear signs of use, laid a gold pendant with an hourglass. What could it be? Some kind of jewelery? Or maybe a magical toy from Zonko's Shop? Hogwarts' students loved all these artificial wands and  self -writing quills, so the golden chain could have some entrainment use too.

Tom wasn't sure  _why_ he put it around his neck. After all the  parcel wasn't addressed to him, and if the hourglass was  indeed another magical prank, something might happen to him. He remembered the Justy-Scarves all too well, they were very popular during his fourth year - seemingly no different from usual shawls, they began to tighten around its owner's neck, when they were trying to cheat. Of course they were meant to be nothing more than a harmless toy, but when during a game of dice one Gryffindor almost suffocated because her scarve wanted to prove so badly that she wasn't playing fair, the headmaster added them to the ever  increasing list of  forbidden objects . Would Black buy something equally dangerous for his cousing? Tom wasn't sure.

He looked at the hourglass again - a decorative inscription read: _I mark the hours, every one, nor have I yet outrun the sun. My use and value, unto you, are gauged by what you have to do_ _,_ but he had no idea what that might mean. Maybe Alphard's gift was some kind of a strange watch? It didn't look scary, it seemed _fascinating_.

Mechanically, almost unconsciously he turned the hourglass several times.  How long will it take until someone visits the hospital wing?  He could write a whole essay for the next history of magic class, if he only had some parchment and a quill...

“Who you are?” A surprised voice brought Tom suddenly back to Earth.

He looked around confused. It seemed to him that he was all alone in the hospital wing.

But when he turned away from the window, Tom saw that on the bed in which he was lying just ten minutes earlier, an unfamiliar boy was sitting. Perhaps he wasn't  _unfamiliar_ ? It seemed to Tom that somehow he knew the eyes hidden behind the round glasses  and the unusual scar on the boy's forehead only deepened that impression. But before he could ask any questions, the boy jumped up waving his wand in a defensive gesture.

“What are _you_ doing her e?!,” he shouted and Tom heard a mixture of shock and fear in his voice, although he couldn't understand _why_. He had no idea why anyone,  much less this known-unknown student would aim his wand at him. “Don't move!,” the boy said when he tried to take a step in his direction, trying to understand what was going on.

Suddenly, he felt  _it_ . A strange pressure somewhere inside his head, as if he was in a soundproof room. He wasn't alone in it - the thin boy was there too and he could bet on a Galleon he didn't have, he heard his  _thoughts_ . Of course Tom has heard about  Legilimency , even tried it on some Slytherins, but so far he  managed anything  only with the younger ones and usually he had to look them in the  eye , which wasn't too discreet. Besides he's heard only snatches of sentences, some meaningless words separated from each other, he saw images appearing out of nowhere and they were  often completely incomprehensible. This time it was different - he heard  _exactly_ what the boy thought, he saw images the other one  must have seen with his  own eyes, things  _no one_ should know; even their feelings  seemed similar and shared.

A shiver run down his spine. Why was this boy looking at him with such hatred? Although he seemed familiar, they've never met, Tom Riddle was sure of it. It was a bit like the dreams that haunted him during the short hours of rest before dawn – unreal yet close, on the border between what is real and what is only imagination. What did he do to deserve such a greeting? He didn't claim he was walking innocence, quite the contrary – he was aware of each and every of his sins, because they were all committed with premeditation. His father, grandparents, the weeping girl in the bathroom, the children from the orphanage... They feared him so much that even after so many years they were avoiding him every summer... Did he regret it? No. And it seemed to him that he could never regret. There was no room for regret in his nature, and thus no chance for redemption. Maybe the Ravenclaw girl died unnecessarily, they've almost closed the school because of his games with Slytherin's basilisk... Besides, was it really so necessary to get rid of Muggle- born students? He  _was_ the heir of Slytherin, so in theory he  _should_ want to do it, but the longer he thought about it, the more doubts he had... Was blood purity his true goal? After all he didn't know he was a wizard himself for so many years... He felt satisfaction when everyone trembled with fear of the mysterious heir. He saw it in their eyes, when they were sneaking down the corridors in groups and the hope with which they turned to him for help nonetheless, having no idea about the truth. All these terrible things that still haunted him, they were only  _his_ property. Images from the past he couldn't change and a future which seemed devoided of hope, despite all his efforts... Tom couldn't let  _anyone_ see it. That is why he mastered Occlumency in the first place and so far he was sure he was pretty good at it.

“Do we know each other?” Tom asked finally, almost unconsciously raising his hands in a defensive gesture, noticing with anger that he had left his own wand on the nightstand. Why was it no longer there? “I'm not used to people threatening me for no reason.”

“For no reason?” The boy snorted in response, as if Tom said something very amusing. After a moment his gaze lost some of its previous hostility, although he was still looking like a wild animal ready for a surprise attack. “You really don't know who I am, do you?”

“Why should I know? The Slytherin answered with another question, still understanding very little from the whole scene. “Aiming at random people seems much more incomprehensible for me, Mr. Widely Known.”

Was it an illusion or did the boy almost laugh? He held back as if laughing was something improper, but why? Tom saw many eccentrics in his life so far, but the boy really belonged in the forefront.

In the end he lowered his wand. He was still standing rather far away, but made some kind of a clumsy inviting gesture, pointing at one of the chairs.

“Do we know each other?” Tom asked again, sitting beside the boy's bed. He still couldn't see his own abandoned wand anywhere.

The boy hesitated for a moment, then said evasively:

“What do _you_ think?”

Was it a game of sorts? If so, Tom didn't know its rules.

“I am both sure that I know you and that we've never met,” he replied as inaccurately as his interlocutor.

“You're right, I guess...” The boy seemed to be lost in thoughts suddenly, talking more to himself than anyone else. “Well, theoretically we've met before, but I guess you cannot remember it... You're from another time, right?”

“From another time...?” Tom asked in disbelief. What did he mean? After all, he didn't even go outside the hospital wing. How exactly would he travel through _time_?

A sudden thought striked him... What was written on Alphard's gif? …  _nor have I yet outrun the sun_ . Did the golden trinket moved him in time to another Hogwarts? How was it even possible? He had read about time turners, but apparently they were so rare and dangerous that the Ministry of Magic took over the majority of private collections... Did one of the spare time turnes came into his hands with the afternoon mail in some unbelievable twist of fate?

“What year is it?” Tom asked nervously, trying to control his own shaking hands. Was it possible that the traveled to the past? Maybe he could somehow change fate, even if only a little? Maybe he could save his mother? Or himself? It seemed his head was spinning and his legs were shaking, he couldn't believe it was really happening.

“1997,” the boy answered, surprised with the unannounced guest's nervous reaction.

It was... the future? Tom felt he was helplessly falling back on the chair he uncounciously jumped up from seconds ago. Was he really stupid enough to believe fate would be on his side for once? Life proved him often enough that he was cursed. He knew it from the moment he heard the care takers' whispers in the orphanage, telling the tragic story of Merope and her death in the shabby house in London. He had no idea about the existence of magic for years and still he subconsciously felt that curses existed, powerful and impossible to take off, destroying slowly from the inside like a parasite.

Why couldn't he get his second chance? Yes, he knew there were no second chances. Perhaps poets and priests believed in those, but for people like him they didn't exist.

Murderer. Traitor. That's what he was. He had no chance for redemption, either in this or in any other time.

“Are you... crying?” The boy, whom he had already forgotten about, the strangely familiar witness of his weakness, was staring at him in disbelief. In his eyes... Was it a hint of... hope?

“I don't know what you mean,” Tom replied dryly, trying to sound convincing. He put on his most official Head Boy face trying to find the most natural way to wipe his face. He couldn't afford ridiculating himself with feelings no one understood.

“No, wait,” the boy reached out and held the sleeve of his pajamas; for a brief moment their eyes met. Tom could swear that he saw some kind of augury, one a little crazy, fragile and impossible, but still beautiful and strong. “There's hope, Tom. Believe me. Believe me, another future may come.”

“How do you know... _my name,”_ he wanted to ask, but the second half of his question drowned in a void and another voice was heard, one coming from a distance:

“Who are you talking to, Tom?”

“Mr. Riddle, please go back to bed!”

He looked around in surprise. We was standing at the window again, a snowstorm was gathering strength outside; the lake seemed as distant as the scene he took part in mere moments ago. What happened?

He let Miss Pollingtonious lead him back to bed without much resistance, took a cup full of a steaming potion smelling of roses and pepper into his hands and almost choked on the first sip. One of the Slytherins hit him a little too hard between his shoulders and everyone, including himself, started laughing carelessly - and a little silly. For the first time in my life, he felt good. Simply good. These people... Were they really his friends? Was he looking for traitors and mockers in vain?

Tom looked up and saw Alphard Black in front of him, a little absent as usually. Behind him stood his younger brother Cygnus – they were sleeping in the same dormitory for six years, but did he really know him? On the other side of the bed Abraxas Malfoy was still trying to overcome his laughter, leaning on the arm of another Black, Orion; the two were practically inseparable and if something was happening at Hogwarts, they were always in the centre of events. Even the gruff Nott came to the hospital wing and was now laughing together with the rest of Slytherins. Lastrange was holding something looking suspicisly like a pack of sweets from Honeydukes in his arms.

What were they all doing at his bedside? Didn't they know his friendship was never real?

He took another sip of the potion, this time more carefully. The warmth started to slowly take over his body, heading from his heart to his frozen fingers.

_Who are you?_ , a ghostly voice asked again, this time more quietly and from afar. Who was he? What was limiting him? His childhood, the orphanage, the letter from Hogwarts, Slytherin? Did he ever have a choice? Did he use it properly?

Tom felt something cold on his neck.

The golden chain hidden under his shirt like a silent promise.

 


	2. Midsummer's Night

“Beautiful flowers.”

Tom shuddered at the sound of a voice behind his back. He hated when anyone was sneaking on him from behind and knowing Horace Slughorn he could suspect that his former teacher was staring at him for a long time from behind the stately linden trees growing near the lake. The Potion Master was the most intrusive of his admirers. Of course in ordinary circumstances Tom would spot Slughron earlier, but the day wasn't ordinary.

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, trying to sound carefree, though he could barely hold back his annoyance. Why did Slughorn have to follow him all the way to the school grounds?

“ _Horace_ , how many times do I have to remind you!” The teacher laughed and patted him on the shoulder, presumably thinking that such evidence of familiarity would please him. “Give this garden a few years and it'll be our lovesick students favourite place!”

_I don't think so_ , Tom wanted to comment, but he stopped himself just in time. He shouldn't reveal the miserable fate that was awating those who tried to stroll through the rose garden without permission.

He started working at Hogwarts three years earlier and with each summer his roses gained more charm. Herbology wasn't his favorite subject, but when he learned of the departure of Herbert Beery – who gave up on teaching at Hogwarts after some terrible accident happened during the Christams pantomime he was directing - after two rather purposeless years he's spend working at Borgin and Burkes, Tom decided to try his best in the field of magical education. He had to admit that students were getting on his nerves more than he expected, Slughorn was testing his mental balance at least three times a day and Dumbledore was still observing him suspiciously, but at least he could get back to Hogwarts. The two years he spent in the small room above the gloomy shop seemed only a dim memory compered to the splendor of the old castle. In London he felt like a stranger; he couldn't make his peace with the city that was the place of his deepening isolation for so many years – he was still avoiding the area the orphanage was build in fear of unwanted memories. Hogwarts was quite different. He had his own apartment now - three sunny rooms in the west wing, from which an extraordinary view of the lake and the Forbidden Forest unfolded. From this perspective the water seemed much less dark than in the Slytherin dormitory. He got an office too, near one of the school's greenhouses; from the day he planted an especially aggressive Venomous Tentacula near its door, the number of students coming to him with questions fell drastically.

But it was not the chambers and prestige of his new job, not even the decent salary that drew him to school again. It was here where the strange and still not fully explicable things started happening, when he accidentally traveled in time and met Harry.

_Harry_ . It seemed to Tom that he should know his name ever since, even before he saw Harry for the first time in the hospital wing during the snowy winter five years earlier. He had to go back to Hogwarts, even if only to think of Harry strolling along the same corridors many years later. He knew that Harry liked to sit by the lake and that he was visiting the library only in acute need; he was keeping the Pensieve in his office on the third floor and when no one was watching, he was sneaking out of the castle to visit Hagrid, as if forgetting that he was no longer a student and no one would give his detention for going out at night.

They've met only a few times during the past five years, but Tom felt as if he knew Harry better than he knew himself. Harry was warm, loyal and generous, so different from him and yet strangely alike. He couldn't understand him often, even if he tried. Harry's unhealthy optimism and his faith in people sometimes irritated him, but he had to succumb to his charm every time. It seemed their past was joint, but they were rarely talking about it.

Although he was looking for Tom Riddle in Harry's time, he couldn't find anything about him. Tom Riddle disappeared many years before and it seemed that even if he lasted in someone's memory, the memories were painful and reluctantly recalled. He understood why, when they met for the fourth time; Harry was living in London at that time and clumsily tried to grow some violets on the kitchen's windowsill. By accident Tom saw the title screaming from the first page of the  _Daily Prophet_ and saw a name he almost forgot about. No wonder no one remembered Tom Riddle; he  _wished_ to be forgotten. Wasn't that why he chose another name, a greater one?

He disappeared from Harry's life for months. He knew at last why Harry was acting so strangely during their first meeting. Could he blame him? Tom learned the rest from a few stealthy trips - from the books mentioning him with disgust and fear. The greater the reluctance with which it was written about him was, the more strongly contrasted it with admiration for Harry, the Boy Who Lived. He could finally understand that extraordinary feeling that overcame him it every time they met. Their fates were linked, though everythign else - time and things equally difficult to overcome – seemed to separate them. Death, prophecies, betrayal... He tried to kill Harry so many times, but in the end it was Harry that came victourious out their war. He couldn't stand in front of Harry knowing it all. Why didn't Harry kill him when they've met for the first time?  _He_ would have done it using the perfect ocassion...

Harry, however, was incomprehensible. When Tom traveled in time once again, trying to change the course of events, to do anything to prevent all of these terrible things from happening, they met again. He didn't know whether his time turner was broken or maybe some kind of mysterious magic allowed him to travel only to one place in the future, but Tom found himself stannding at Harry's door one autumn evening, still not sure what exactly happened.

He couldn't name the feelings that tore him that night. He didn't  _deserve_ forgiveness. Harry was trying to concieve him for long hours that there was nothing to forgive, because he didn't comitt all of Voldemort's crimes. He couldn't believe it, he didn't  _want_ to. In a fit of guilt Tom admitted to releasing the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets, to the murder of his father, to the persecution of the children in the orphanage, but it didn't make such an impression on Harry as he had expected.

“I know,” the boy said simply, his face bearing an enreadable grimace Tom couldn't understand. He had a feeling that Harry was fighting with himself, but what was his fight for, he didn't know.

He went back to his own time disoriented and lost, but with each passing day he felt that something was changing, that  _he_ was changing. He started looking at the dingy shop and his nasty employers with more and more reluctancy, the old hypocritical witches giving him chocolates and wizards trying to trick him into buying fake silvers were filling him with despise. His life was frustrating, especially when he felt there was so much to be changed, so much to catch up on, to compensate for the losses he brought the world... and Harry.

That's how he ended up at Hogwarts - Horace Slughorn, the same one that was carefully watching his magnificent roses now, wrote to him, before it was officially announced that there will be a free spot for a Herbology teacher at Hogwarts. Using his charm, which was apparently still working on headmaster Dippet, and trying to convince the always suspicious Dumbledore, Tom got the job. He couldn't say that he found the meaning of his life, but at least he was surrounded by people nicer than Borgin and Burkes.

Using his newly acquired Herbology teacher's privileges, he founded a garden, one that Hogwarts hasn't seen yet. Tom devoted every spare moment to studying spells he didn't even think about until then. He was quite amused to find he was getting better with spells enhancing his roses' immunity to pests. But he had a goal - he wanted to conquer time that separated him from Harry in some way, even if it meant an enchanted garden growing on forever.

“Rose of Province?” Horace Slughorn's voice interrupted his thoughts. The teacher was standing a few meters away, trying to ward off an obtrusive bee. “I thought they were slightly smaller.”

“It's Fulgur,” Tom corrected him, looking at blood-red flowers for a moment. This shrub was planted first. “Enchanted, all of them are.”

“Do they bloom in winter? Have you strengthened the fragnance too?” Slughorn wanted to know, touching another rose. Tom wasn't sure why it was making him so angry. Before he could answer, the Potion Master asked another question: “And this one? What's its name?”

“I haven't decided yet.” Tom looked at the lush bush creeping up the wall of an arbor. Coming up with the names of all the new varieties of roses was sometimes more problematic than growing them, strengthening seeds with magic and protecting them from prying students. He liked hidden meanings.

Slughorn walked away, thinking aloud about another meeting of the Slug Club next Saturday, but it couldn't bother Tom. He had something to do. He looked at the nameless rose once again and recognized the place where he cut off thirteen flowers in the morning. He wondered if in the evening the wounds would be still visible.

 

...

 

“Roses?” Tom heard a girl's voice coming out of the room. For a moment he felt a strange thought paralyzing him, something he didn't feel for so long it took him a while to understand he felt a sting of jealousy. Who was the strange girl? Did Harry get tired of waiting for him?

He was standing in a sunny room. He knew it well - he lived in it, though not in this time. If not the thought of Harry's feelings instability, Tom might have noticed that since his last visit in one of windows a stained glass has appeared, one that he had created fifty years earlier; another success in the fight against the undefeated.

“Beautiful, aren't they?” A familiar voice asked and Tom thought that he will go crazy with another moment of uncertainty. “They were delivered this morning.”

“Thirteen? Who is your secret admirer, Harry?” The girl laughed and Tom breathed a sigh of relief. The tone of her voice told him that she was rather enjoying Harry's happiness than wanting to steal it.

“He's not such a secret,” the boy answered; through a crack in the door Tom saw that he was looking at the bouquet with tenderness. He decided to tease him about it later, when Harry would argue again how impratical it was to send flowers to anyone.

It was nice to see Harry simply talking with a friend, praising his roses almost as if he was prasing him. He could get used to that other, unknown Harry. When they were alone, Harry seemed tense at times, perhaps expecting the return of He Who Was Not Named By Them.

“You have to indroduce him to us as soon as possible,” the girl said and then Tom heard a faint crackling and a green glow reflected brightly on the walls. She had to use the Floo Network. Suddenly, Tom saw two empty cups rising from the table and flying slowly in his direction.

“Tom?” He heard Harry's voice when the door opened under the influence of magic, a cup almost crashed on his head. “When did you...” the younger man paused and a sudden expression of dissaproval appeared on his face. “Why did you send them again? Hermione won't give me peace now.”

“It seemed to me that a moment ago you said that they were beautiful.” He couldn't resist a bit of malice. That's how he was - cynical, especially when he wanted to be quite different.

But Harry didn't seem particularly offended. Instead, he laughed and came closer.

“They are ravishing. Of all the birthday roses you send against my will, I like these the most,” Harry thanked him, climbing on his toes and kissing him on the cheek. “It doesn't change the fact I had to come up with an explanation, because at least four people were questioning me about it, including Horace.”

“Horace returned from his retirement?” Tom pretended to be surprised with the news. Harry was complaing about the pushy Potion Master and his endless invitations to Slug Club dinners for months. “I had the greatest pleasure to talk with our dear common friend just this morning. As always, he was delightfully obtrusive.”

 

...

 

“Where are we going?” Harry asked once again, trying to look from under the band, which covered his eyes; he was smiling like a child, carefree and in impatient anticipation.

“We're almost there.”

The school grounds were bathed in the light of and July afternoon sun and Harry's hand were as refreshingly nice to touch as always. The Whomping Willow, which always fascinated Tom with its ferocity, fluttered gently in the wind, ready to attack at any moment. The air smelled of grass, warm earth and sweet laziness; Hogwarts from the past was exactly the same during the summer holidays. Without students the castle seemed a little empty at times, as if lost in a dream. The impatience of late August didn't embrace it yet and it was dozing peacefully, providing teachers with its extensive meadows, so that they could walk around or sit near the lake with books borrowed from the ancient library.

A young wizard - he couldn't be older than Harry - passed them near the greenhouses and gave them a puzzled look. For a moment the man looked as if he wanted to ask what exactly they were doing, but in the end he just smiled and went back to his business; his hands were covered in dragon skin gloves and there was a smudge of soil on his face.

“A new Herbology teacher?” Tom asked when they walked a few steps away. They were coming down a gentle slope toward the lake.

“Did you see Neville?” Harry asked, a note of alarm clearly heard in his voice. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened around Tom's hand. Was Harry afraid that Neville-man could recognize him?

“He seemed surprised by your unusual way of walking,” Tom said, trying to calm Harry down, “but he gave us a lot less attention than the plants from greenhouse number three.”

“Oh yes,” Harry laughed quietly, his muscels loosening a little. “He's struggling with a Venomous Tentacula since he arrived, it's an especially aggressive specimen.”

They walked in silence for some time. It was nice to listen to birds singing from the edge of the Forbidden Forest and strange splashes coming out of the lake; perhaps the giant squid has decided to settle down closer to the shore. Tom let his thoughts wander aimlesly.

In his Hogwarts he was more cautious, although he wasn't sure why. His former teachers - with one exception of Dumbledore - adored him, and the students - although he had to admit that it surprised him - they seemed to like his lessons. Nonetless, he had to always be on guard. Perhaps he was afraid that someone could find out what he really was. Harry was always talking about forgiveness, but he didn't know one thing - that Tom didn't forgive himself.  He could be persuaded not to take responsibility for the acts of that another Tom Riddle, but he had enough of his own sins. The corpses, which he had skillfully hidden in his memory, were getting heavier. Sometimes he had the feeling that the ghost of the Ravenclaw girl, whose face he couldn't remember, will visit the castle and spill his secret, taking away his only hope for a better life. His second chance was uncertain and every day he was appreciating its value and fragility more.

When he was with Harry, he didn't have to pretend. Harry knew him like no one else, in this or any other time. Slytherins could be good friends, but Tom never really felt one of them. He had neither family name nor money and although they never made him feel inferior, he couldn't establish deeper ties with them; nothing more than a bond people had after living in the same room for seven years. Horace Slughorn earnestly tried to be his friend when Tom returned to Hogwarts as a teacher, but he had no desire to be with the Potions Master more frequently than was required by decency. Slughorn was pestering Tom with his snooty way of living and the feeling of him being the teacher's trophy. Harry was the only person he really liked to be with.

They stopped at the hidden gateway of the garden. For a stray student it would look like a tall clump of bushes, but Tom saw the keyhole without trouble.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said, tucking the black material back into his pocket.

Harry looked around in amazement. For a moment, he was motionless, trying to sweep as much as he could of the garden, but eventually he went ahead, stopping from time to time near the blooming flowers.

“What is this place?” He asked, touching the white flakes of Winter's echo and leaning in to sniff them.

“Your garden,” Tom replied, pulling him toward the arbor. He knew very well that no one could see them now; the garden was open only to a distant part of the lake bordering with the Forbidden Forest.

“Mine?” Harry looked at him as if he couldn't understand what Tom was saying; his green eyes were full of wonder.

They sat on a bench hidden in the shadow of the still nameless roses. Their fragnance seemed even more stunning after fifty years.

“This time,” Tom began, searching for the right words, though it seemed to him that he spent the whole day trying to plan what he wanted to say. “I don't belong here. No one, not even you can keep me here,” he paused to take a breath. He was speaking faster than usually and his throat was dry. “But even time can be deceived. Do you see these flowers?” Tom pointed at the dark red roses, which sisters were now a bunch in a vase in Harry's chambers. “I planted them fifty years ago and they are still here, so you wouldn't forget about me.”

Harry stared at him for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face. Tom wondered what this could mean. Did he use inproper words? Expressing feelings was never his strong point and not much has changed in this area – he was neglecting this sphere of life way too long to be able to simply catch up.

“I'm still wondering... why nothing has changed,” Harry said suddenly. He looked toward the lake, but his eyes were empty, as if he could see something distant, invisible. “You're different. I knew you long enough to spot the difference, yet everything's the same.”

They were silent for a long moment. A flock of birds flied up from the Forbidden Forest and hung over the tall trees like a dark cloud for a moment. Tom thought it reminds him of a storm he remembered from his childhood in London. From his window he could see the dark outline of the neighboring roofs, over which the heavy leaden clouds hung during storms like huge birds at prey.

“It seems to me,” Tom said carefully, the sound of thunder still somewhere on the edge of his memory, “that time is a garden full of forking paths.” He took Harry's hand and pointed at the rose bush. “See? It has buds and flowers in full bloom and some that are slowly dying, although I strengthened them with magic,” he turned Harry's hand to the desiccated red petals. As soon as Harry touched them, they fell on the ground. “There is no clear beginning and end, time of blooming and wilting. Roses I saw this morning aren't the same ones in which shadow we 're sitting now. The thirteen flowers in your vase was growning in this garden just a few hours ago.”

Harry looked at the scattered petals. A stray beetle buzzed in the tall grass.

“You should be writing book,” the boy said finally, resting his head on Tom's shoulder. “Some people like such sentimental nonsense.”

“ _Sentimental nonsense_?” Tom pretended - quite successfully – to be indignant. “ _You_ started this conversation.”

“Tom,” every timeHarry pronounced his name, it sounded a little differently. This time he recognized a note of impatience and amusement in Harry's voice, perhaps not necessarily in that order. “Tom, you don't understand. By changing you, I changed myself.”

 

...

 

Harry smelled like roses. Scarlett Lady, Fulgur, Old Moon, Clarisse... And another one, the unnamed, whose glorious burgundy buds were bending from the vase. A refreshing evening breeze entered the room through the open window; in the light of the last rays of the sun Harry's skin seemed tanned like Lady Hillington's petals.

Tom didn't know the taste of roses, but perhaps it was another thing Harry had in common with them. He kissed him once more, just to be sure, but after a while he could no longer remember what he wanted to check. The light danced on the white sheets and when Tom looked into the misty green eyes he briefly saw an unknown, inhuman creature. The other Riddle was still occuping Harry's mind.

He leaned over Harry's fair neck and clung to it with eager mouth.  _He_ wouldn't do that. A dark trace flourished where his lips were a moment earlier.  _Midsummer's night._

 

...

 

“ _But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d,_ ” Tom said quietly, more to himself than to Harry, looking at the boy sleeping peacefully.

For a moment he thought he that among the paths of the garden he'll be able to find the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter III will be up later today.


	3. Félicité Hardy

 

“You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

Harry tried to laugh, but it was effectively prevented. He still tasted like summer, though the new semester began two days ago.

Outside the window birds were singing. Tom had no idea what time it was - time seemed to cease when Harry was so close. Perhaps it was just so; how could time defeat them when they were conquering it with every meeting?

He kissed Harry again. Whenever they had to part, a strange feeling was overhelming him; it seemed they would never see each other again. Did every time traveler feel like this? Tom didn't know whether there was anyone he could ask about it and he would never believe there was another pair just like them. They were exceptional; with each year it seemed to become a curse rather than a blessing.

“Have you heard about Horace?” Harry asked, pushing a loose strand of hair from Tom's forehead.

He shook his head. Why would he be interested in Slughorn? In his Hogwarts he had enough opportunities to converse with the Potion Master and it was never a particularly fascinating relationship. “He died two weeks ago,” Harry sighed, looking away. Years passed and he was still unable to talk about dying, as if he was responsible for the death of each of his friends. “He would be 113 years old in April.”

For a long moment they were silent. One hundred and thirteen... Tom wondered how old would he be in this time? Eighty, ninety? A shudder shook him at the thought of the other Riddle, whom Harry had met once, whom Tom had never met other than through Harry's insidiously spied memories.

Harry was thirty years old. Tom could notice it occasionally, when he was frowning in a specific way – fortunately Harry didn't have too many reasons to be angry and usually he looked almost like the day when they met for the first time in the hospital wing. Tom wondered if he would ever see him as a grown man; he was unable to see _himself_ as one and looking at it from a certain point of view, he was at least eighty years old. In his Hogwarts his thirty-third birthday was approaching him. Sometimes he wished they could spend all of them together. It seemed that fate they were trying to overcome was much more cunning than they originally assumed. Even though Tom was trying to work on his time turner, it wouldn't listen to him. He wasn't able to travel to a selected day in the future – he could only follow Harry, as if they were bound or rather chained.

Tom felt a warm hand on his shoulder and the unpleasant thought began to fade away. Green eyes stared at him with an innate goodness; each time he saw less concern in them. He believed there was still hope for them.

 

…

 

“What's the occasion, Tom?”

He shuddered at the sound of an unexpected question; Tom was sure he was alone in his office. The Venomous Tentacula was no longer defending its door - professor Dumbledore, the new headmaster, was very understanding in terms of privacy and it wasn't him who suggested to move the dangerous plant; Tom decided himself to do it, trying to protect a place far more precious than the greenhouse. Just as Horace Slughorn predicted, over the years the rose garden became a place of numerous students' romantic randez-vous. Someone could think it was heart-warming, but Tom was only angry about it. The garden was created for Harry and he alone had the right to visit it.

Horace himself was standing in the doorway of Tom's office filled with exotic plants; in the past few years, the Potion Master gained some weight and was becoming more and more like the man Harry showed Tom in pictures, a human plum in rich robes. Tom could now believe in the incredible story of his former teacher pretending to be an armchair.

“Can I?” asked the mustached man, not waiting for an invitation and glancing suspiciously around the room. Tom used the moment to discretely hide the object of his work. “You didn't show up for lunch, not to mention breakfast and dinner yesterday. We began to wonder if one of your plants turned against its owner.”

With a wave of his wand Tom removed a pile of homeworks he had to check and waited for his former teacher to sit in the low chair. The seat creaked dangerously, but didn't give up under Slughorn's weight.

Tom had neither time nor humour to talk with Horace, but he knew well enough that the best way to get rid of the older man was showing him moderate interest – Slughorn would entertain himself with his own words, convinced the other side was catching every word coming out of his mouth. Tom learned this tactic during his school days and from the day he started teaching, ignoring Slughorn has become a kind of art for him.

“I've heard that you seem absent during your classes,” the Potion Master said, watching him intently. “You're no hiding anything from me, are you?”

“If it was young Malfoy that reported to you, I wonder if he's also mentioned his overdue essay,” Tom replied, trying to sound carefree.

“If I wasn't considering us to be close friends, I would suspect that you fell in love,” Slughorn continued innocently. “I'm sure you'd tell me if you were getting ready for a wedding?”

“Of course, Horace.” Tom tried not to break eye contact, because it would only make Slughorn's suspisions greater. “You'd be the first to know.”

“Really? So why did you hide the ring you were working on so quickly when I entered?”

The room fell silent. Tom could bet that if the Venomous Tentacula was still guarding his door, he'd be able to hear it catch flies right now, despite the fifteen meters separating him from the exit.

“I didn't mean to...” Tom tried to explain, though he wasn't sure _why_ he should care about Slughorn's opinion and his so-called friendship. Was it because of Harry and the change he started in him?

“I must admit that I'm disappointed , Tom,” the professor interrupted him with sorrow easily heard in his voice. “A wedding! Did you think that you'd be able to hide it from me? Who's the happy girl?” he asked somewhat less accusingly, as if he was truly happy for Tom. “And show me the ring! You're not going to decide everything on your own, are you? I couldn't leave a friend with the dilemma of choosing the right flowers - with all due respect for your experience in this field, of course.”

Tom barely stopped himself from saying aloud that he has some doubts about Horace's competence in the subject of marriage - if he remember properly, the Potions Master was never married, neither in this nor any other time - and there was no indication that he was in any relationship other than the one he had with his co-workers and former students. In the end Tom kept the thought to himself; Slughorn somehow managed to get offended and calm himself within three minutes, so there was no point in showing him the shortcomings of his arguments.

Instead, Tom opened the desk drawer and pulled out a ring. He had no idea what kind of jewely Harry liked - judging by the complete absence of it in his closet, he had no special interest in it. It was making everything even more complicated.

Tom didn't want anything eagle, but on the other hand, he couldn't decide on something trivial. _He_ wasn't trivial and so wasn't Harry, whatever the latter was thinking about the matter.

“Gold and roses?” Horace seemed somewhat surprised, looking at the intricate weave.

“I was thinking about snakes, but I'm not sure if Harry would find it amusing,” Tom said, more to himself than to Slughorn. In fact, he had already created the second ring - for himself. It carried a disturbing memory of the other Riddle, but the desire to have something that could resembled him of Harry in a tangible way was too strong to give up on.

“Well, I suppose Harriet will appreciate this change,” Horace concluded, leaning over the desk and giving the golden roses careful look. “Thorns?”

_Our relationship isn't the easiest one_ , Tom wanted to say, but ultimately decided to stay silent about this issue.

“Only the stones are missing.” Slughorn was completely absorbed in his new job, which he apparently assigned himself. Out of nowhere he pulled a thick magnifying glass and started watching the golden petals carefully. “Diamonds seems the most suitable, they supposedly uphold faithfulness – not that you have to worry about something like that, of course... Or maybe you'd prefer something in coulour?” The wizard suddenly looked up and gazed at Tom with and unnaturally enlarged eye. “Sapphires?”

“I was thinking about emeralds,” Tom smiled in response, finding out that keeping his normal distance and reserve is getting harder than usually.

“Am I right guessing Harriet has green eyes?” Horace winked at him, still not putting the magnifying glass down. “As the Head of Slytherin House I couldn't be happier with this choice,” he added, pulling his wand from his pocket and waving it vigorously.

On the table three small stones appeared - in the afternoon sun shining through the glass roof sparkled they were gleaming beautifully. It didn't last long, however; Tom couldn't even reach out for them, because the emeralds swirled lightly over the surface of the table and after settled in the midst of the golden roses petals.

“You didn't have to...” Tom wanted to say something suitable, but couldn't give his thanks properly. He didn't like to have debts of gratitude.

“Consider it a good omen,” Slughorn said shortly, quickly rising from the worn-out chair, as if he feared that Tom would try to give back the unexpected gift. “What about flowers?” He asked again, pausing for a moment in the doorway.

Tom smiled lighlty in response. Roses were his specialty.

 

...

 

Green eyes stared at him from behind the white roses; the sweet smell of Félicité Hardy was spreading across the room and Tom wasn't sure if he was ready for what was about to happen.

He had no doubts about his own feelings – he was sure in this or any other time no one would be as important for him as Harry was. Nobody knew him so well.

But how could he hope that Harry felt the same?

The closer the moment of asking that one simple question was, the greater fear was overcoming him. Did people usually feel so vulnerable baring themselves before their loved ones?

“They're beautiful,” Harry greeted him, accepting the flowers and sending them to a vase. Wandless magic? Tom didn't expect such progress.

“I stole a seedling from the Luxembourg Gardens,” Tom replied, trying to keep a cheerful tone. It was much more difficult than usually.

Harry looked at him with a puzzled expression, as if he could see the inexplicable tension which was taking control over him.

Was it the right time? Tom wished he asked Slughorn more questions about details of an engagement. Suddenly the Potions Master started to seem the most professional wedding planner Tom has ever met. Besides, whom else could he ask? It seemed that Horace was the only person besides Harry he could call a friend.

He heard a clink – Harry was filling two glasses, turned back to him. Tom used the occasion and pulled a small box out his pocket. Why didn't he think about anything less... obvious?

No, no, no, he knew Harry hated showy things, especially in terms of their relationship.

Should he kneel? It seemed a bit silly, but wasn't it the proper thing to do? Tom looked at the wooden floor and was surprised to see how the sun rays illuminated the particles of airborne dust. The world wasn't aware of his dilemmas.

He took a deep breath.

He felt like the next few minutes played out in slow motion, as if someone threw a spell on him. Harry turned slowly and pulled a glass of wine toward him. Instead of taking it, he showed Harry the small box.

Merlin, it shouldn't look like that.

Harry recovered from surprise first and with a slightly bemused smile exchanged the glass for the box.

“Open it,” Tom encouraged him, taking a sip of wine. He should have drunk at least a bottle to add himself courage, but it was probably too late for it now.

Harry struggled with the ribbon for a moment, but eventually he was able to unpack the gift. Tom felt his heart beating fiercely. He knew Harry wasn't sure what to say.

“It's beautiful.” Despite the kind words Harry looked at Tom more carefully than usually. “What's the occasion? It's not...”

“Will you marry me?” Tom interrupted him before he could stop himself. His voice sounded unnatural, as if it didn't want to obey him.

It wasn't supposed to look like that. Even Horace would be more graceful than he was at the moment.

Harry opened his mouth in surprise. He looked silly, but Tom preffered not to think how stupid he had to look right now.

He heard raindrops against the windows. Somewhere in the distance a storm was gathering strenght.

Was it normal to wait so long for an answer? Didn't Harry see it coming? After all they knew each other for _years_ , years that didn't even matter in case of their relationship. Even Horace was intelligent enough to guess... Tom wasn't asking for a wedding with hundreds of guests – he only wanted a _confirmation_. A proof that Harry felt the same as he did.

“Tom, I...” Harry began uncertainly; it seemed he couldn't find the right words. “I can't say yes.”

A single lighting tore the skies, but Tom barely noticed. He stared at Harry as if he saw him for the first time.

“Why?” he managed to ask foolishly, trying to gather his thoughts. Where did he make a mistake?

“How do you imagine it?” Harry began half-heartedly. “I can't just announce that I... _know_ you. Someone could recognize you, Horace wasn't the only one... Can you imagine what Minerva McGongall would think if she saw you coming out of my chambers? And Ginny? Do you think she forgot what you did to her?”

“Ginny? I don't even know _who Ginny is_ , because you didn't introduce me to any of your friends...”

“Why can't you understand?” Harry frowned, but this time he didn't look like a man; he was more like a child, lost and looking for help. “Even _I_ can't forget what happened! My parents, Sirius, Remus and Tonks, Dumbledore, Fred... They're still _dead_. Nothing has changed for them.”

“Nothing has changed?” Tom felt anger burning somewhere inside him. He didn't feel like this for a long time. He could shatter the empty bottle of wine, maybe the window too, he could throw curses blindly, he could hurt someone.... He took a deep breath before he spoke again: “ _I've changed!_ Can you imagine how much it costed me? Do you think it was easy? Do you think that only _you_ are the victim of fate?”

Harry was silent. He was staring at the floor.

Tom had had enough. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked toward the door.

 

…

 

Tom disappeared.

Harry looked at the flowers in the vase. Apparently the white roses had no intention of withering, even though it's been almost three months since Tom left the room in anger.

Since that time he didn't give Harry even the slightest sign of life.

On his finger he felt a familiar weight; three emeralds sparkled mischievously among the golden flowers.

Harry didn't put the ring on immediately; he waited until morning. Of course everyone asked where did he find something so beautiful and each time he answered - truthfully - that he got it as a gift. In time he began to say Tom gave it to him, but never gave out his full name. He couldn't.

Sometimes he was sitting in the rose garden for hours. Before, Harry went there only when he felt extremely lonely in his time, when he would prefer to be in another one even if temporarily. Time turners he destroyed during his fifth year at Hogwarts hasn't been repaired. Hermione repeated at least five times that the Ministry has decided not to return to the time-manipulation project and that he should stop thinking about it. She was probably suspecting that Harry would try to prevent the deaths of his friends or parents. He blamed Tom so carelessly for it, but now he would do everything for one more chance to see _him_ and not _them_. Did Tom feel the same when they've for the first time?

The moon was hanging low over the tranquil lake. The silence surrounding the garden seemed unnatural in contrast with the state of Harry's spirit. Why did he say all these terrible things? Did he have the right to blame Tom? Maybe nothing has changed in the history of wizarding world, but something changed in _his own life._

Why? Why did he let Tom go?

Something flashed under the iron bench. For a moment it seemed to Harry that it were the three emeralds, but he quickly realized that he saw something else. He reached out and felt a cold shape under his fingers.

The golden chain seemed to have no end. Between its beads fragments of leaves and flowers were stuck. An extremely fat beetle tried to escape the golden strands. And at the end... Harry saw an hourglass.

 

…

 

Harry suddenly felt that he was _cold_. He looked around with astonishment and realized that wherever he was, it was the middle of a winter afternoon.

For a brief moment Harry wasn't sure where he was, but the intoxicating scent of Midsummer's Night made it clear. On his right the bower was hiding under a thick layer of snow, but the roses under it were still alive.

He looked around once more to see if no one was watching him and conjured a pair of gloves and a cloak with a flick of his wand. What was it all supposed to mean?

Why did Tom want him to come here?

“Are you looking for something, my boy?” A voice came from behind Harry's back and he nearly jumped, so silent was the garden just a moment before.

Harry turned around and barely restrained a cry of surprise.

In front of him there was Horace Slughorn - much younger than he remembered, quite similar to the Potions Master from memories Dumbledore's showed him rather than the old man with whom he was eating breakfast in the Great Hall for the last few years.

“It's a very nice garden, isn't it?” Slughorn asked, looking at him sympathetically. “You're not the only young wizard to like it.”

“How did you...” Harry wanted to ask, but the teacher interrupted him with a smile, the same he presented so often when it seemed to him he knew more than other people:

“I had an advantage. I suspected that you'll come here in the end.” Slughorn's voice was full of incomprehensible bitterness. “Follow me.”

Harry wanted to know what was happening and why was Slughorn waiting for him, but the Potions Master was already moving in the direction opposite to where Harry came from.

Was someone out there waiting for them? For a moment Harry almost believed that Tom had planned all this and a glimmer of hope appeared in his heart, but Slughorn's serious expression effectively destroyed it.

Did something happen? It was certainly Tom who left the time turner in the garden, Harry had no doubts about that. But why had so many months passed before he found it? Wasn't he looking carefully enough? Were past and future ruled by some unknown laws he couldn't understand?

They passed the Fulgur bush; Slughorn hasn't slowed down. Before Harry could ask him where exactly were they going, his teacher turned sharply toward a stone path - someone brushed the snow away from it, but the effort was in vain – the white fluff was falling from the sky again.

“How did you...”

Before he could finish the question, Slughorn stopped suddenly and looked at something.

Harry didn't even have to read the name on the tombstone to understand. Félicité Hardy was in full bloom here despite the cold. The scent of the flowers Harry knew so well suddenly seemed nauseating to him. Only one word appeared in his head, powered by an unnatural echo: _Why?_

“How did I know that you'll come?” Slughorn asked. Harry felt that the teacher is trying to hide his face from him. “Tom never considered me particularly sharp, but even I could see what was happening to him.”

“Did he... suffer?” Harry asked finally, trying to control his voice.

Slughorn didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked at the stunningly beautiful roses.

_I stole a seedling from the Luxembourg Gardens_ , Harry remembered suddenly one of Tom's last words. Tom went to Paris to get those stupid roses and Harry could only think about what his friends would say if they knew whom Harry wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

“I have to admit I was surprised when he changed so suddenly,” the Potions Master said, sill not looking at Harry. Snowflakes swirled in the frosty night air; somewhere in the distance, Harry heard a child laughing. “I his sixth year, I remember it clearly. I would never admit, not even before myself that I was frightened. The things that interested him... No decent wizard should know about their existence.”

Harry remained silent. Slughorn didn't know half the truth about Tom. Now that it was all over, he wanted to leave it for himself.

“This garden... It wasn't hard to guess that he did it for someone important. Someone more important than himself.”

The man paused again. Apparently, reliving it all again caused him pain.

“He suffered, it's obvious. When he returned that day, I knew immediately that something was wrong, but I had no idea that it would be so hard for him to accept rejection. He lived... at least for some time. He didn't want to give up. But it came back, the other Tom, the one we almost forgot about. He has changed. Not overnight, no,” Slughorn sighed, tucking his hands in his pockets. “He ate less, disappeared for days... He came to my chambers in the middle of the night once and for a moment I thought he came back to his senses. I wanted to help him... I suspect that he never considered me a friend, but perhaps I was the only person he could turn to. He must have been desperate.” Some sort of a bitter grimace appeared on the man's face. “I tried to talk to him, but he kept repeating that he cann't go back, that something went wrong... Your name is Harry, isn't it?” Slughorn asked suddenly, not taking his eyes off the roses.

Harry nodded in response. He was afraid that his voice would betray him and refuse to obey.

“I tried to convince myself for a long time that I've heard him say _Harriet_ then, in the greenhouse.” For the first time that evening the teacher smiled weakly. “Your name, he was saying it too, your name and the name of his last roses... We found him the next day, Dumbledore and I, here, in the rose garden. He looked as if he was asleep, finally at peace. Poison,” the man explained, Harry's unspoken quesion hanging in the air. “I'm not sure what exactly, though I've been looking for the answer ever since. We've only found the flowers by his side.”

For a moment that might as well been an hour, they were silnet, each lost in his own gloomy thoughts. Harry wanted Slughorn to go away, to leave him alone and let him mourn. It was his fault. It wasn't a poison that killed Tom – _he_ did it.

“Could you...” Harry saw that the Potions Master has no intention of leaving, but as usually, Horace Slughorn had to interrupt him:

“I don't think he wanted you to despair.” The teacher finally looked up and Harry saw the sorrow in his eyes, although it was completely different from the one he felt. Despite the years that passes Slughorn's sadness mingled with envy. And pity Harry couldn't undestand. “He was afraid of what could happen - he was afraid of his own demons and the future that could become a reality, whatever that meant to him.”

“He didn't regret, because he did it for you,” the man added, turning his back and walking away without saying goodbye.

For a moment Harry could still hear Slughorn's steps in the snow.

The word _why?_ still haunted him, forming all sorts of questions, eventually stopping by one: _why did he let Tom go?_

Was he really so afraid of Ginny's and Minerva McGongall's disapproval?

The thought became unbearable. Harry was now able to see more clearly what a terrible mistake he's made.

He would prefer to cry, to feel pain. Anything would be better than the emptiness he felt, the cold that was slowly taking control over him.

Harry looked at the gravestone again. He knew death was the only thing Tom was truly afraid of. How could he let him meet Death alone?

_Felicite Hardy._

The white flowers he knew so well. Harry had the impression that their green eyes were watching him closely. In the winter landscape they looked unnatural, as if Tom wanted to drew his attention to them.

“Harry Riddle,” he sighed bitterly, picking a single flower. “Or Tom Potter?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit I like this story a lot and writing it was a nice challenge. As much as the ending is pretty much open and up to your liking (for example: I like pain), it does resonate one of my strongest tomarry-related sentiments - (in canon) whatever the circumstances a (truly) happy ending is never meant for Harry and Tom.


End file.
